


You're Giving Love Instinctively

by Trigonometrical



Series: 5 + 1: The Series [2]
Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Bondage, Choking, Communication, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic Consent, Foreskin Play, In Public, M/M, Marijuana, Nude Photos, Rimming, Safeword Use, Subspace, Sweat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-04-08 00:44:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19096276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trigonometrical/pseuds/Trigonometrical
Summary: After the first dozen times they’d had sex, it was easy to just let the sexual preference chips fall how they may—which was usually Brian falling, to his knees, with Pat’s fingers in his hair. As a modern millennial man and a big ol’ queer, Brian knows thattopandbottomaren’t en vogue for most of the community outside hookup apps, anyway. It’s more complex than who "gives it" to whom, as he’s drunkenly rambled to Jonah on more than one occasion. However, Brian also thinks that if he doesn’t fuck Pat soon, he might actuallydie. // Or, 5 times Brian tries to top Pat, +1 time he finally succeeds.





	1. All You Do Is Change Your Clothes and Call That Versatile

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I could just write one fic for this fandom, scratch the itch, and be done. Oh well. Everyone loves a good 5+1, right? (Right?)
> 
> Fic title from "Upside Down" by Diana Ross, chapter title from "I Don't Feel Like Dancing" by Scissor Sisters.
> 
> Standard RPF rules apply, don't send this to anyone who's in it, or who knows people who are in it. And if you shouldn't be reading it for whatever reason: don't.

-0- 

From the very first time that they’d discussed sexual preferences (half-asleep in the E3 Airbnb bathroom before Pat’s morning flight home), Pat has said that he’s vers. Well really, he’d answered _both_ , when Brian had mumbled, _how do you like it_ , into the skin of Pat’s collarbone.

However, after many months of fucking each other, dating each other, loving each other (in that order), Brian has yet to see evidence of Pat’s so-called vers-ness. One way or another, despite Brian’s best efforts, Pat always ends up topping when they have sex.

Which, to be fair, Brian loves. He’s also vers ( _sick, me too_ , he’d said in that bathroom before slamming their lips together). But Brian could write sonnets, Petrarchan _and_ Shakespearean, about how much he loves getting fucked.

After the first dozen times they’d had sex, it was easy to just let the sexual preference chips fall how they may—which was usually Brian falling, to his knees, with Pat’s fingers in his hair. And it’s not like it’s a _chore_ to get fucked by Pat. He’s certainly good at what he does. Works Brian over like a professional. Reduces him to a mess whether Pat’s above him, or below him, or sitting at the foot of the bed, focusing that intense gaze on him as he makes Brian edge himself over and over again.

But sometimes, Brian wants to top. And not just when he gets the upper hand while wrestling—pinching Pat’s hips, always—and rides Pat’s dick, chasing his own pleasure long before Pat finds his. As a modern millennial man and a big ol’ queer, Brian knows that _top_ and _bottom_ aren’t en vogue for most of the community outside hookup apps, anyway. It’s more complex than who gives it to whom, as he’s drunkenly rambled to Jonah on more than one occasion. And yet, he’s also rambled that bottoms are the backbones of our society. Braver than any US Marine.

Look, sometimes you love getting dicked down by your insanely hot boyfriend almost more than you love breathing, but you can also appreciate that said boyfriend would look amazing with his veiny hands clenched in the sheets while you choked him on your cock.

Brian thinks that if he doesn’t fuck Pat soon, he might actually _die_.

The only problem, Brian finds, is that Pat has a hard time letting himself go.

 

-1- 

 

The door to Pat’s apartment is only closed for three seconds before Brian’s pushed Pat up against it. They haven’t wasted a single moment since Quinn had texted Pat, _had to cover a close for Jessica, I’ll be out until 3am_.

Pat had made up a terrible, completely transparent lie to Simone about why they had to suddenly duck out of drinks, while Brian bounced anxiously at the bar trying to pay their tab. To her credit, Simone had only made one lewd hand gesture before she shooed them away, pulling both of their half-finished drinks closer to her chest. They’d never told her anything about their relationship—hadn’t told anyone but Brian’s family and Pat’s sister, at Pat’s nervous request—but Simone is a smart cookie, so Brian knows that she knows that he knows that she knows that something is up. They still refuse to acknowledge anything outright, though, which means a lot of loving hush money spent on giving her their half-finished drinks when they sneak off together.

Later, Brian may feel a bit embarrassed about being that horny on main. But he lives with his _sister_ and his _best friend_ , and Pat’s roommate always seems to be in the apartment at the most inopportune times, and well, can you blame him? For wanting to grab his boyfriend’s hard-on through his jeans before Pat has even set down his keys?

Pat sucks in a breath through his teeth and lobs his keys in the general direction of the couch. That’s all the movement he gets before Brian crowds him into the door, bites at the juncture of Pat’s neck and shoulder.

“I want to fuck you,” Brian says. He nudges Pat’s feet apart so he can press even closer, hug their bodies together until he can feel Pat’s dick jump in his jeans. Leans in and laps at the bruise he’s pulled to the surface of Pat’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Pat hisses. He’s twitching a bit, his hands restless against the wood of the door, like he’s searching for a handhold but coming up empty. Brian solves that problem easily, grabs one of Pat’s wrists in each hand and threads them up the doorway until Pat’s wrists are crossed above his head.

“Keep them there, gorgeous,” Brian mutters. He makes dark-intense eye contact of his own as he rakes his fingernails down the soft underbelly of Pat’s forearms. Pat’s pupils are blown and he’s breathing heavy and his fingers are clenching and unclenching, warring the desire to touch Brian against the desire to do as he’s told.

“God, you’re hot like this.” Brian says. He can’t help but nip at the shoulder bruise again, flick his tongue against the skin. The hickey there is going to be painful and delicious, and Brian can’t wait to “innocently” clap Pat on the shoulder at work tomorrow while digging his thumb into the bruise. He drags his lips up Pat’s throat, under his jaw, to the corner of his mouth. He can feel warm puffs of air from where Pat is panting against his cheek.

“Brian,” Pat says. It’s not a whine, or a plea, but it’s close—a thready unspooling of his name into three syllables more than necessary. Pat hitches his hips trying to get friction, but Brian is quick to press against Pat’s biceps, keeping him flat to the door.

“It turns me on how badly you want me,” Brian says softly. He lets his eyes roam over Pat’s body. Moves his right hand down to work on the fly of Pat’s jeans. Slides it inside in a way that makes Pat choke on his next inhale. “Fuck, makes me so hard,” Brian adds.

Pat squirms and clenches-unclenches-clenches his fingers again. He’s leaking so much already, barely even touched, and Brian uses the fluid to slide his fist up Pat’s cock. The angle’s cramped, but worth it, when Pat is hard and hot and right here for Brian to touch. Brian moves his left hand down to Pat’s waist, use the newfound leverage to roll his hips and ride Pat’s thigh, canting forward at the same pace that his fist slides up and down.

“Can’t wait to be inside you, Jesus,” Brian says, sounding more than a little out of breath. “Been dreaming about how tight you’ll be around my cock.” He punctuates his sentence with another roll of his hips. Pat lets out a little _ah!_ and buries his face in Brian’s neck, starts sucking a mark over Brian’s throat, where Brian is so sensitive and soft.

Brian can’t be blamed, really, for losing the plot a little bit as Pat nibbles at his throat. He’s distracted for maybe six seconds, at most. But it’s enough for Pat to smirk—and Brian _feels_ it against his skin, thinks, _uh-oh_ —before Pat bucks his hips hard, causing Brian to stumble backward a step.

Pat grabs Brian by the shoulders, spins, and presses Brian belly-first into the wood of the door. Crowds up behind him. Holds his neck in place with one hand while undoing Brian’s fly with the other. “Change of plans, baby,” Pat murmurs, so so so close to Brian’s ear that it makes Brian shiver. “You can’t just _say_ shit like that and expect that I won’t want to hold you down and make you fucking scream.”

And, well, it turns out that Pat doesn’t even need to hold Brian down to make him scream.

Much later, when they’re just two sweat-slick bodies panting in the bed, Brian props himself up on his elbow. He looks down at Pat’s closed eyes, his gentle smile. “Do you not want to get fucked?” Brian asks. He didn’t really mean to say it out loud, but his brain’s still sex-offline. And honestly once it’s out, he feels a little better for it.

Pat cracks open one eye like a dragon sleeping on its pile of jewels. “What do you call what we just did, Bri?”

Brian scoffs. “Don’t deflect, Pat Gill. You know what I meant. Are you not interested in receiving during anal sex?”

Pat cracks open his other eye, rolls over so he’s also propped up on his side. He looks a little guilty, and a lot embarrassed, and Brian feels bad for bringing it up in the post-sex afterglow.

“I mean,” Brian stumbles, “it’s okay if you don’t, Pat. I’m fine with that.” And he is, he _so_ is, just wants Pat to be comfortable and fucking _talk to him_ about this shit. “I just want to know if I should stop, you know, angling for it, if you’re not interested.”

Pat grabs Brian’s hand in his own, places a few soft kisses over Brian’s knuckles. He’s quiet for a long moment before he says wryly, “No, I’m—I’m interested in, uh, _receiving during anal sex_.” His eyes flick up to Brian’s, hold his gaze briefly before moving back down to his knuckles. “I want to—I want you to, you know. Fuck me. I just get stuck in my head about it, sometimes, if I think about it too much beforehand. And then it’s easier to shut my brain up by doing something else.”

Brian leans in to kiss at the corner of Pat’s eye. “I get that,” he says. “We can wait until you’re ready, as long as you need.”

Pat huffs and runs his hand though his hair. “No, that’s not—I don’t think that’s what I want either. It was hot, thinking about you inside me, I just—” he breaks off, searches for the words for a long moment, “—need to stop my brain running away from me.”

Brian hums in acknowledgment. “What would you like me to do?”

“I think,” Pat starts, then changes gears. “Normally I love how much you check in and make sure that I’m okay with stuff, but I think—I think in this case, just let me _feel_ without thinking about it too much.”

Brian flops down and nuzzles his way onto Pat’s shoulder, throws one arm over his hips. “You don’t want me to ask about fucking you?”

“I’m giving you a general, go-for-it, my dude,” Pat says. He strokes the underside of Brian’s belly with his pinned hand. “I promise that I’ll tell you if I’m not in the mood or if you’re doing something wrong.”

Brian must make some sort of face, some emotion he can’t even decipher, because Pat adds, “I trust you, Brian. And I trust myself. And I trust us.”

Brian blinks up at Pat for a long moment, before he says, “That’s gay.”

“I know,” Pat says cheerfully, before he dumps Brian off the side of the bed.


	2. Some of Them Want to Use You, Some of Them Want to Get Used By You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me! I was sick for the entire month of June, which delayed this chapter by about three weeks. And this was _technically_ supposed to be Chapter 4, but then Brian wore a shirt that said "I <3 Eating Ass" and well . . . I certainly had to bump this one up.
> 
> Note the updated fic tags. If rimming isn't your thing, skip to paragraph that starts with, "Brian pads down the hall to the bathroom,"
> 
> Title is from "Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)" by the Eurythmics.

-2-

Brian knows he’s good with his mouth. He’s confident enough to say it. He treats going down on his partners like it’s a fucking artform and he’s a Renaissance painter with all the time in the world to master his craft.

He also loves it, is the thing. He stopped taking piano lessons in high school because he was good at it but hated to practice. But oral sex is not like practicing piano. Brian could happily have Pat’s cock in his mouth for hours, just feeling the warm weight of it, watching Pat’s thighs shake with the strain of holding back.

And. Well. Brian wouldn’t be a good millennial if he didn’t love talking about eating ass.

It’s actually a fairly new development in his sexual repertoire. Ass-eating. None of Brian’s previous partners had been interested in either giving or receiving, and truthfully Brian had been curious but not curious _enough_ to request they explore it. But it felt like a gap in his sexual education. The Becoming of Brian. He’d worn nipple clamps, and handcuffs, and been strung up from the ceiling like a marionette, but he’d never eaten ass.

Until Pat. Pat’s ass. P-ass.

God, it was a good ass. Pat was a former athlete turned gamer, so his body was bony and wiry with surprising muscle in his butt and thighs. Even sitting twelve-plus hours per day on it couldn’t tamper its beauty.

(Though Polygon Dot Com unanimously agreed on Slack that _Clayton_ has the best ass in the biz, which had made Clayton blush for two weeks straight.)

Brian wouldn’t say that he’s an ass man, per se. Hands and wrists and arms and collarbones are more his jam, which is why he loses his goddamn _mind_ every time Pat, the veiniest motherfucker in the world, wears a tank top. But Brian’s into the rest of Pat, loves him, even, and Pat’s ass is part of that.

Once, a couple months into their whole _thing_ , Brian was squeezing Pat’s butt through his boxer briefs, and Pat had joked that he had an ass for radio, and before Brian could stop himself he’d blurted, “Can I rim you?”

Pat _had_ eaten ass _and_ had his ass eaten, it turned out, like a good millennial. Brian felt his face flame as Pat talked about it, but then Pat gestured, _have at it_ , and guided Brian through the motions. Until instinct took over. Until Pat swore, and Brian spread him apart with his hands and really went to town.

They still don’t do it that often. Either way. Brian had yelped and jerked himself raw in like five minutes the first time Pat had rimmed him—it felt so _good_ , but also a little overwhelming and then a lot too much. They both have to be in a particular mood. Like now, Pat whining as Brian pulls his lips slowly up up up the length of Pat’s cock.

A thin sheen of sweat covers Pat’s stomach. Brian sinks down again and Pat swears, rolls his face to the side. His damp hair pools on the pillow.

“Did you need something?” Brian asks, when he’s completed another torturously slow circuit and pulls off Pat’s cock.

“I’ve been turned on since before we even got in the shower,” Pat says. “What do you _think_?” He wriggles, bunches up the sheets under his heels and scoots them down to the bottom of the bed.

Brian _tsks_ , but he kisses up Pat’s cock. Grinds his own dick against the bed for a couple seconds because he can’t help it. “I said I was going to take you apart with my mouth, Pat Gill,” Brian says. “This is me following through.”

“Well follow through in a different way, then,” Pat says, gruff, but the last word turns into a hitched whine as Brian reaches down to fondle Pat’s balls. Brian stays there for a moment with feather-light touches, then dips behind to press his fingertips into Pat’s perineum.

“ _How_ different?” Brian asks. Muses, really, as he circles the pressure of his fingers.

“Whatever s’good,” Pat slurs, bearing down toward Brian’s fingers. “Just. Need you.”

Brian moves his hands to Pat’s stomach, scratches down the muscles, recalls their names from his college Anatomy final—rectus abdominus, internal obliques, external obliques, transversus abdominus. The slight _V_ from Pat’s hips down to his groin, which Brian never learned the official name for, okay—he was 19 and couldn’t stop thinking about it as _the sex muscle_ because it made his mouth water and helped him figure out his sexuality _real_ quick.

Brian continues the movement of his hands down the crease of hip and leg, scratching through the hair on Pat’s upper thighs. Pat shifts and rests more on his sit bones, tucks his knees up to his chest and wraps his criminally-long arms around his thighs to hold his legs in place. Something pops in Pat’s lower back, but Pat gives a relieved-sounding grunt and flexes his toes, so Brian keeps going.

“Jesus, you look good,” Brian says. He slides off the edge of the bed, plants the balls of his feet on the floor. “Gonna put my mouth on you again.”

Brian grabs Pat’s calves and ducks down, places his legs over Brian’s shoulders. Pat’s hips are twitching, little circles, like he’s fighting a losing battle with himself about how good this feels. There’s more sweat gathering on his stomach. The lines of Pat’s body are unreal, so long and sharp and perfect for Brian to grab and touch and lick. Pat is absolutely stunning, like a fucking Mapplethorpe in a gallery, and Brian could look at him all day. Until Pat huffs and digs his heels into Brian’s shoulders and oh, right. The interactive exhibit is _so_ much better.

He starts with a pointed tongue and soft, light licks that just barely dip into the valley between Pat’s ass cheeks—that swirl and tease their way inward toward warmer skin. Pat’s left leg spasms and Brian curls an arm over Pat’s knee to keep him in place. Once Pat’s leg is secure, Brian laves his tongue, wide and flat, over Pat’s hole.

It’s a good thing Brian is holding him, because at the first touch, Pat gasps then breathes out _fuu-uuck me, holy shit_. Brian feels Pat’s muscles clench with the strain of keeping his hips from bucking into Brian’s mouth. Which he appreciates, really, as a person who doesn’t want to suffocate.

Brian closes his eyes and applies more pressure, licking slow and firm, wide-tongued, over the wrinkled skin. Pat tastes a little like clean sweat but mostly like Brian’s unscented body wash which would be a sexy if it didn’t also taste like soap. Brian quickly flicks his tongue on the edge of Pat’s rim and Pat _writhes_ like he’s been electrocuted.

Brian hums and scoots closer, feels a rush of heat go straight to his cock, which he’d been ignoring in favor of working over Pat. He’s never happier than when he’s getting someone off with his mouth. And yes, he’s a conceited little thing—but it’s hot as hell when Pat locks his ankles at Brian’s mid-back, clamps his thighs around Brian’s head. Brian feels trapped in a very, very good way, and if he wasn’t determined to get his cock in Pat by the end of the night, he’d happily submit to the pressure and follow Pat down down down the rabbit hole. Brian’s body vibrates with want, and he must telegraph that with his tongue because Pat stifles a needy sound (into his forearm, Brian guesses, because Brian certainly can’t see it), and rolls his hips into Brian’s face.

“Don’t suffocate me, baby,” Brian mumbles when he pulls away for a moment, but he doesn’t give Pat a chance to reply before he takes away the newfound leverage. At the next roll of Pat’s hips, Brian slides his hands under Pat’s ass and really _goes for it_. He spreads Pat’s cheeks apart with his fingers and starts licking him open, moaning as the new angle allows him to get so much deeper with his tongue. It’s not long before Pat opens up for him and Brian can slide his tongue inside, start fucking in and out through the tight rings of muscle.

“Holy shit,” Pat repeats, breathless, and Brian can picture him: eyes wide, lips red, chest heaving, running a hand through his sweaty hair to get it out of his face. One of Pat’s hands drops to tangle in Brian’s hair, pulls with a sharp-bright-good pain when Brian uses his pointed tongue to circle around Pat’s rim. He stays at that pace for a while but changes up the direction of his circles, the circumference, the speed. Pat whines thready and loud, and Brian is gonna come if he doesn’t move things along.

Brian slips his right shoulder and arm from underneath Pat’s death-grip, then budges up so he can get two fingers working next to his tongue. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, but Pat pants and swear under his breath. When Brian lifts his head to change the angle, he notices that Pat has a loose fist around his cock—not stroking, just holding, almost like he needs something to ground himself.

“Love getting you so wet for me,” Brian says. His voice scratches like sandpaper, like gravel. “You feel so good around my tongue.”

Pat’s chest heaves. “I’m so close,” he says, “but I—I need—”

“I know,” Brian replies. He flicks his tongue one last time and slides his fingers out. Places several quick kisses on the inside of Pat’s thigh. Takes a moment to catch his breath. “I’m gonna rinse out my mouth real fast and then I’ll be back to get you there.”

Pat tenses, Brian can feel Pat’s muscles cord in his thighs as though he’s already gearing up to thinkthink _think too much_. And Brian can’t have that.

“Grab the lube and condoms from the nightstand,” Brian says, authoritative. “I want you to have two fingers inside yourself by the time I get back.”

“Fuck,” Pat says, but he rolls off the bed to comply so fast that it makes Brian’s dick twitch against his stomach.

Brian pads down the hall to the bathroom, completely naked, thankful that Jonah is visiting family out of town and Laura is at a movie with some friends from work. He smirks at his own sex-flushed face in the mirror, proud of himself, of how fucked-up-good he looks, how spit-slick his lower face is. Brian grabs his toothbrush and squirts a generous blob of some all-natural toothpaste on the bristles when he hears Pat’s feet shuffle down the hall.

“Hey Brian,” Pat calls from somewhere outside the door. “There’s no lube.”

Brian winces as he shoves the brush in his mouth. Ah, right. They used the end of the lube the time they went to the bone zone, and Brian hadn’t gone to a Duane Reade to replace it. Fuck.

Though, wait. He definitely got some sample-size lubes from Pride last year and put them in a box along with the dildo he hasn’t used in several years but can’t throw away for some reason. “There’s some under my bed,” he hollers, toothbrush muffling his words. “A white box, inset lid.” He hears Pat holler, _Got it!_ as he leans down to spit toothpaste in the sink. Perfect. He’s pretty sure lube doesn’t expire. He thinks.

Brian takes a gentle washcloth to his mouth, dries his face and hands. As he enters his room, he notices Pat looking down at something that Brian can’t see. Both of Pat’s hands are in front of him, and he’s definitely not fucking himself like Brian asked. “Pat, what—”

Pat turns, raises his brows practically to his hairline. Holds up a roll of hot pink bondage tape. “Brian, what _is_ this?”

Brian laughs as he kneels up on the bed. “Oh,” he says. “It’s bondage tape.”

Pat’s eyebrows raise even higher, so Brian continues: “My friend’s sorority Big started selling that Pure Romance shit and my friend talked me into coming to a party she hosted. This was before I’d taken up my firm no-MLM stance, of course.”

“Of course,” Pat echoes, but his eyes keep flicking from Brian’s face to the tape and back again, like he doesn’t know what to focus on.

“I felt obligated to buy something, panicked, and ended up with this,” Brian says. His erection is flagging a bit, no longer as insistent and consuming.

Pat starts picking at the seam in the tape as he chuckles. “Hot pink?”

Brian waves his fingers in front of Pat’s nose to show off his fingernails—which are more fuchsia than neon pink this week, but get across the point. “Fairly on brand, I think,” he says.

Some of the tape comes unstuck under Pat’s careful fingers, and he unrolls an inch or so before rolling it back up. “How does it work?” he asks.

“It’s like erotic Saran Wrap,” Brian says. Pat snorts and rolls his eyes. “It sticks to itself but not your skin or hair. So it won’t pull your arm hair or whatever.”

Pat pinches the tape and sticks the end to his hairy knee, then rips it off. Nothing. “Kinky,” he says.

Now Brian snorts. “Not really. I’ve tried using the tape once or twice with a previous partner, but neither of us were really into it.” He shrugs and sits back on his haunches. “Should probably get rid of it, but i-d-k. I just keep it in that box and move it from apartment to apartment, _ad infinitum_.”

Pat flips the roll over in his hands. “It seems like you would just immediately tear through it,” he says, “like some weird Hulk roleplay.”

Brian shakes his head, then shakes it again to flip his hair out of his face. “Nah,” he says. “From what I remember, it was actually pretty strong, though that was several years ago and I’ve gained at least one muscle since then. Here.” He holds his arms outstretched in front of him, palms up, elbows and forearms touching. “You’ll see what I mean.”

Pat’s gaze flicks between Brian’s hands and his eyes a few times before he understands and releases a soft _oh_ under his breath. He leans forward and kisses Brian’s left palm, then loosely wraps the garish pink tape twice around his wrists. “Like this?” Pat asks, murmurs so soft and tender that Brian feels his heart growing three sizes.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it,” Brian says. His mouth is dry. He clears his throat.

“Hmm.” Pat undoes the second wrap then pulls the tape tighter across Brian’s wrists so it’s actually holding his hands together. “Interesting.”

Brian thinks Pat mumbles something else, but can’t stop looking at Pat’s _fucking_ hands. He knows he’s being a complete and total lesbian about it but my _God_ Pat’s fingers just look like that! All the _time_! Pat’s knuckle bones shift under his skin as he moves his hands, so precise and methodical and delicate. But also so strong, Brian knows—he’s seen those fingers get up to some wild shit. Pat is the only partner Brian’s ever had who could reach Brian’s prostate without straining their wrist at odd angles. His fingers feel so good in Brian’s mouth, holding down his tongue so he drools all over himself. And when they clench in his hair as Pat drags Brian’s head up and down on his cock—Pat not so much fucking Brian’s mouth as he is using his mouth like a sleeve—Brian practically comes without being touched.

And don’t even get Brian started on the size of Pat’s hands. They’re so fucking big, enough to span a tenth, probably, if Pat played piano, which he doesn’t. Pat’s palms are the perfect width to grip around Brian’s throat and choke him out one-handed while the other one fists his cock. His hands are also good for massaging Brian’s shoulders while they snuggle, and for measuring out the perfect (read: way too much) amount of spaghetti when they cook in Brian’s kitchen, and for holding two ice cream cones while Brian fiddles with his shoelaces during their walk on the High Line. Pat’s hands are good for a lot of things, but they’re stupidly good for sex.

Brian shifts his weight back and forth on his knees just thinking about them. His thighs ache a little, his arms straining where they’re wrapped all the way up to his elbows, his—

Wait a minute.

Brian snaps his head up to look at Pat’s face, and Pat—

Pat grins like the cat who got the cream, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth. Staring right at Brian. Once the jig is up, Pat can’t seem to help himself, and he lets out a barking laugh.

“Gotcha, baby boy.”

“You rat bastard,” Brian says. There’s no heat behind it, though. He tried for _slightly menacing_ , but his dick is hard as a rock again and leaking like a sieve so he’s not sure it comes across that way. Brian tries to pull his arms apart and finds that he can’t, the resistance from the tape not letting him budge an inch. Yep. Just as strong as he remembered. Oh, jeez louise.

Brian sniffs. “Very sneaky, Mister _Oh, what is thaaa-at? How does_ that _work? I’m a shrinking violet and I’ve never had sexual congress that’s not missionary-with-the-lights-off_. You knew exactly what you were doing, you fuck.”

Pat can’t seem to stop laughing. “Guilty,” he says through a smile. Pat smooths the tape under his hands. “I know you had plans, but then I saw this stuff and my brain shut down thinking about how good it would look on you. And you got so fucking blissed out when I wrapped your wrists, I couldn’t help myself.”

“A likely story,” Brian grumps, but now he can’t stop smiling either. “What are the reviews?” He’s just vain enough to admit that he probably does look incredible like this, arms bent at ninety degrees, hair askew. He can feel some heat in his cheeks that’s spreading down his chest and stomach. He’s _so_ fucking hard.

Pat leans back to survey the scene, scratches at his chin. “ _Nintendo Power_ gave it a ten-out-of-ten.”

Brian laughs and wiggles his hips. “So glad I’ll make it on all the end-of-the-year lists.”

Pat looks like he’s about to say something, then stops, fidgets. “Is this—I can take it off, if you—do you want to—?”

“Yes, oh my god Pat, read the room,” Brian says. “Fuck me like this.”

Pat surges forward and smashes their lips together in a bruising kiss, open-mouthed and sloppy and with maybe more tongue than Brian strictly likes, but it’s still so good that he can’t help but moan into Pat’s mouth. Pat breaks away first, slides his hands down to Brian’s waist as he catches his breath.

“If I hold you here,” Pat says, squeezing at Brian’s sides for emphasis, “do you think your thighs are strong enough that you could bounce on my cock without using your hands?”

Brian’s dick jumps so hard that he has to twist his hips away from the sensation. “Ohhhh my god, if you give me that mental image and we don’t at least _try_ it, I will literally, actually die.”

“Well we can’t have that,” Pat says. He smirks, the bastard, and waves the part of the tape roll that’s still connected to arms. “Let me get the scissors, baby,” he says. “Don’t touch yourself while I’m gone.”

“Fuck you, Pat,” Brian says, but he does his level best to touch his dick the second that Pat walks out of the room, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Safe sex note! If you're going to do anything with rope, bondage tape, etc., make sure the safety scissors are already nearby just in case something happens.


	3. Wider, Baby, Smile—and You’ve Just Made a Million

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from “Girls on Film” by Duran Duran
> 
> Note the updated list of tags! 
> 
> There are two important things to note in this chapter:
> 
> 1) The characters smoke weed before having sex. Neither of them are high enough that they are unaware of their surroundings, but they are under the influence and having sex. Both characters are consenting, and it’s implied but not stated outright that they have had discussions about consent in these types of situations before (but also stated by me saying it now: they’ve had these discussions! :) ).
> 
> 2) During sex, one of the characters has an anxiety attack and safewords with his “yellow” safeword. He then needs to be grounded by the other character. There are no descriptions of the unspecified trauma, and the focus of the scene is on one character talking the other character through the situation. After the anxiety attack subsides, the character decides to continue having sex, but changes what they are both doing into something gentler and less stressful. It is absolutely a happy ending. And if I were to categorize this chapter, I would describe it as “hurt/comfort” and not “trauma” or “angst.” But, I know that this is a sensitive subject, so as always: stay comfy out there!
> 
> This chapter is skippable if either of those is a dealbreaker. All you need to know for Chapter 4: Brian doesn’t top in this one, folks. And after this chapter it’s pretty much a non-stop sex romp until the end.

Brian’s back arches, pressing his shoulder blades into the bed as his sternum crests toward Pat’s hungry mouth. He’s putty under Pat’s teeth and tongue, licking over his cotton t-shirt and tugging at Brian’s nipple until the fabric is warm and damp and his nipple stings. He keens then slaps his palm over his mouth. “Patrick how does that feel so _good_?” Brian asks, muffled through his fingers. “Gosh, I—” and he keens again as Pat sets to biting with sharp teeth and a hungry expression. Everything is blown out and amplified and wild and too much and not enough.

They’d smoked a little, beforehand. Brian’s old dealer—and god, Brian hates to use that word for the paladin in Jonah’s D&D group who would also sell Brian some weed when Jonah hosted their game nights—had moved back to Rhode Island a couple months ago, so he’s been out for a while. But Pat’s neighbor had come a-knocking on a Tuesday night, fortunately after Pat’s stream had ended, with a half-eighth in a Ziploc baggie to thank Pat for watching his cat over the weekend.

Pat had made at least six jokes about the situation before the door closed completely—including, of course, holding his pinched thumb and pointer finger to his lips in the universal symbol for _want some weed?_ —but then Pat had shrugged and said, _actually, I think I still have some rolling papers if you wanna—_

And Brian did wanna.

Normally, Brian prefers a chill high. One that calms his anxiety for like one freakin’ second. Mellows him. That’s why he smokes in the first place—to take off the slightly-manic edge so he can watch an entire movie in one sitting without fidgeting himself half to death on the couch. But this—this strain, or whatever new slang the kids are saying these days, isn’t that. Brian had realized it when he also realized he’d been laughing at Pat’s fart joke for five minutes, which was approximately four minutes and thirty seconds longer than the joke warranted. _Oh_ , he had thought, delighted, _I’m high!_

He doesn’t feel sleepy. On the contrary, he feels ready to absorb information. Sensations. Catalogue everything with his tactile little fingers and revel in the hedonistic glory of sounds and textures and colors. The last time he’d smoked and felt this way he’d—well, one, he’d used a gravity bong because Jonah had said it would be fine, and it was _not_ fine, geez; and two, he’d forgotten how to swallow with an entire spoonful of peanut butter in his mouth, and was forced to sit perfectly still and pretend that everything was normal while his roommates played “Beerio Kart” on their shitty tube TV.

This, with Pat? This is nice. He’s not _stoned_ or _blitzed_ or _faded_ or any of the other clever euphemisms for _really fucking high_. He’s just more amped up that usual. Buzzy. His thoughts, bouncy. Fascinated by the ridges in Pat’s comforter underneath his palms.

He’s also stupidly horny. Like, “second puberty” horny. Like, “Pat absentmindedly kissed Brian’s shoulder while setting the roach on the bedside table, and Brian dragged Pat’s mouth into a kiss that was all tongue and teeth” horny.

Pat had felt the same, apparently, because he’d tipped them both over onto the bed, grinned, and placed his smiling mouth against Brian’s again. Which is how they ended up tangled and tousled, Pat thoroughly wrecking Brian’s nipples through his shirt, his fingers gripped at Brian’s hips.

Brian basks in the warmth like a lizard, so comfortable with Pat’s weight pressing him down—but he knows he could be even _more_ comfy if he took off his shirt, he just knows it. _Comfy’s a good word_ , Brian thinks as he works up the fabric of his own shirt.

Pat sits back to straddle Brian’s thighs and helps him get the rest of the way there, flings Brian’s shirt off into some unknown corner of the room. He winks almost like he can’t help himself, and Brian feels so fucking fond and also so fucking horny as Pat presses wet kisses to the newly-revealed skin on Brian’s chest.

“S’good,” Pat mumbles. His tongue follows his lips, tracing patterns across Brian’s chest, up to his shoulders, his jaw. “Not in my head, for once.”

 “Hmm?

Pat latches on to Brian’s collarbone, sucking and kissing and leaving a trail of faint red marks as he sets every last inch aflame. The cooling wetness prickles at Brian’s skin. “You taste so good.”

Brian chuckles and pets weakly at Pat’s hair. It’s so soft that Brian could cry. “If you think that’s good,” he quips, “you should suck my dick.”

Pat’s eyes flick up to Brian’s, then back down to his handiwork. He cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, I should?” His voice is a little high and breathy, but still assured. A challenge. But if Brian knows Pat—and he does, _oh_ he does! and it makes his heart flutter—then it’s a challenge that Pat wants to lose.

“Suck my dick, Patrick.”

They scramble to the foot of the bed at that, both of them eager beavers. Pat practically kicks his computer chair out of the way before sinking to his knees on the floor between his desk and the bed. Brian perches on the edge, feet planted on the floor. He brackets Pat’s body with his calves, his thighs, and Pat rests his palms on Brian’s kneecaps.  It’s—well, it’s _hot_ , is what Brian’s brain supplies. Scorchingly hot and okay maybe that’s just because his body temperature is elevated—is that a weed thing? He can’t remember if that’s a weed thing—but he feels flames licking him from the inside out, sparks flying like flint on metal where his palms rub against the comforter.

He’s so caught up in the sensations that it’s almost a surprise when Pat pulls Brian’s dick from his fly, like he can’t even wait to get their clothes off first. Pat’s hand is strange and prickly until it isn’t, until Pat spits into his palm and slides it down Brian’s cock, and oh—that’s better. And then Pat follows down with his mouth, and _oh_. That’s _better_.

“Fuck yeah,” Pat says, placing a kiss to the underside of Brian’s cock. He sucks at the head and moans when Brian’s hips jerk into his face.

Pat would never admit it—he’d probably rather die first—but he clearly loves playing with Brian’s foreskin. Brian doesn’t know if it’s because Pat is cut, and the sensation is unfamiliar, or if he’s just into it. Brian hasn’t wanted to psychoanalyze it when his dick is in Pat’s mouth, or any other time, besides. But Pat always gets sidetracked during blowjobs by playing with the head of Brian’s cock, eyes focused and intense on the way the skin slides over his glans, his mouth dragging needy, desperate sounds from Brian’s throat. Pat’s detours are _so_ not a problem, really, because Pat is methodical in his study and has put in the hours to become a professional.

Pat slips his tongue between Brian’s glans and foreskin, and Brian grabs Pat’s hair to hold him there. His tongue is wet, everything’s so wet already, _Christ_ , and a jolt of want skitters up Brian’s groin into his chest. Pat rumbles out a moan, which is unfair with how his stubble already feels, and Brian’s overwhelmed by sensory input.

It’s been maybe six seconds.

When Pat pulls back to take a breath, a string of saliva connects his bottom lip to Brian’s cock—and the part of Brian’s brain that stops him from saying the utmost sluttiest shit before they’re even fully naked is apparently taking a vacation day, because he says, “You were made to suck cock, pretty boy.”

Pat’s eyes flutter shut as he _whimpers_ , holy shit, then nuzzles at Brian’s cock. He’s mouthing sloppily at the head, like he’s doing this for himself, not for Brian’s pleasure.

“Love watching you do that,” Brian says softly.

“Take a— take a picture,” Pat says, muffled, “it’ll last longer.”

Brian grabs Pat by the hair and pulls his head up, sharp. “What was that?”

Pat hisses and twitches in Brian’s grip. Brian wants to fuck him quiet and then fuck him noisy again. “You could, um,” Pat says, “take a photo. Since— since you love it so much.”

Brian lets go of Pat’s hair, but sticks close, stunned but not jerking away. Oh. Oh wow.

He does perhaps the world’s quickest body check—his therapist would have a thing or two to say about it if he told her, which he _won’t_ , geez louise—and finds all the points where his body connects to the bed, to Pat’s body. He’s maybe—no, scratch that, _definitely_ —not able to stick to the plot right now after smoking, not able to be as dominant as Pat is suggesting with his tone and the lines of his body. So that’s out. But, his traitorous mind thinks as his traitorous dick twitches, he could definitely take some nudes. See how long he can keep Pat out of his head. Open him up. Feel his body clench around his dick.

They’ve sent each other nudes before. Once, early on, Brian had sent Pat a ten-second-long snapchat of himself sucking and moaning around his dildo. Pat had responded with a video of himself fisting his own cock, except he also used the Andy Warhol filter so there were like four Technicolor cocks that were also maybe Campbell’s Soup cans. Mostly the erotically-charged photos they send each other are exactly that. Erotically charged. The scrambled porn on a late-night TV station. The suggestion of illicit activities like the cover of a romance novel. Brian in a crop top with his hand on his stomach, his abs clenched, his waistband sliding down his hips to reveal a shock of pubic hair. Pat staring directly at the camera, shirt half unbuttoned, one hand twisted tight in his own hair, and if you magnify the photo like two thousand times and turn it ninety degrees, you can see his other hand is clearly resting on his cock.

This type of explicit nude— _in flagrante delicto, in media res_ , _in_ the middle of having sex—is new. But oh dear is it appealing.

Brian fumbles on the bed for his phone, which had slipped out of his back jorts pocket. Pat kneels, patient, as Brian frames the shot: Pat a hair’s breadth away from the tip of Brian’s dick, mouth slightly parted. His eyes are as intense as always, peering over the rim of his glasses that he hadn’t taken off. There’s a flush on his cheeks that makes his freckles stand out, even in the room’s low light.

Brian turns up the volume so that when he snaps the photo, his iPhone makes the camera shutter noise, and Pat stifles a moan by biting his lip.

He gets a photo of that, too.

Brian takes several more: Pat with his mouth open and tongue out, Brian’s cock resting on it; Pat’s furrowed brow as Brian tangles his painted nails into his hair; Pat’s nose pressed to the short hair at Brian’s groin, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” Brian murmurs as Pat gasps and sits back. He thumbs over to video mode, presses record, and grabs Pat’s jaw to feel the muscles working as Pat takes his cock. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

Pat makes a choked noise and sucks harder. There’s a soft susurration of skin on skin as Pat leans in to swallow him down. His hair tickles Brian’s inner thighs.

“You like that?” Brian asks. “Being mine?”

When Pat nods, Brian cuts the recording and tosses his phone back onto the bed. He _has_ to get both of his hands on Pat’s face, feel his stubble prickling his palms, feel the ways his cheeks hollow as he sucks.

“You look so good on film, good lord,” Brian says. He brushes his thumb across the soft skin under Pat’s eye. “Prob’ly shouldn’t tell you this, but I got drunk one night before I even applied to Polygon and got myself off while watching ‘Please Retweet’ videos. You were just— _ah!—_ criminally hot and clearly you didn’t even know, which like, n- not to paraphrase that One Direction song, but it definitely made you hotter. With your— _fu-uck me, Patrick, your mouth_ —with your beard and soft hair and muscles and shit.”

Pat moans so loud that Brian feels the vibration radiate through his entire body. God, drugs are amazing. _Molto bene_. Emboldened, Brian continues:

“People online eat it up, you know. Call you _daddy_ and use w- water droplet emojis in your Twitter mentions. After that first time we hooked up? As you headed to L-A-X, I looked up all of your thirst trap photos and videos and laid myself out in your bedroom.”

Pat whines and digs his fingernails into Brian’s thighs. His mouth slides up to Brian’s glans, tonguing at the soft tissue until Brian’s eyes roll back in his head and his voice goes raspy. There’s an audible _zip_ and then Pat’s shoulder bumps rhythmically against Brian’s leg as he touches himself.

“I fucked myself, P- Pat Gill. I breathed you in and fucked myself on the sheets we’d just been in together. You’re a pretty bastard, you know. You, I guess, you must do it on purpose. Those Twitch streams where you wore tank tops? I looked at those chat records, baby. Everyone could see how— _oh god_ —how good you would look taking cock. How delicious your collarbones would be covered in bruises.

What if they could see you now, hmm? On your knees for me, sucking dick like you were born for it? Rutting against your hand to find some relief, dripping all over yourself?  You’d get _so_ many subscribers, Pizza Suplex. They’d pay an arm and a leg for you to moan prettily and ba—”

“Yellow.”

The word slices through the air like a straight razor.

Brian’s hands drop immediately. He pulls his body entirely onto the bed, sits cross-legged so he’s not crowding Pat onto the floor any more. “Are you okay?”

Pat’s eyes are closed. “Yeah,” he whispers, shaky, “One second.” He lurches toward his computer, shakes the mouse so the screen wakes up. His other hand twitches against his thigh, tapping out a frenetic beat with no discernible rhythm. Brian can only watch as Pat shuts down the computer, staring intently until the screen goes completely blank.

When Pat climbs on the bed, Brian can see his hands are shaking. He meets Brian’s gaze and yet doesn’t, his eyes far away and _oh_ —Brian doesn’t know what happened, his heart’s still thudding like a frightened rodent’s, but he knows how to help with this, at least. He can help.

Brian grips Pat’s face between his hands, pours as much energy and love and safety as he can into the gesture. “Patrick, you’re safe,” Brian says, slow and neutral and clear. “You’re in your apartment in New York with Brian. I’ve got you.”

He repeats variations of that over and over, first louder, then softer, over and over until Pat stops shaking. Until his breathing slows back to normal, and his eyes get some life in them again—before Pat closes them to all the stimulation.

“Sorry,” Pat says. He coughs and clears his throat. “I’m—sorry.”

Brian pulls his hands away and lays them palm-up on Pat’s lap. Pat immediately places his hands in Brian’s, and Brian squeezes three times, _I. Love. You._ “Nothing to apologize for, sweetheart,” Brian says gently. He rubs his thumb over the back of Pat’s knuckles. “What happened? I mean, if you want to talk about it. Which you— you don’t have to, course.”

“I don’t particularly want to,” Pat says with a sigh. He pulls one hand away and runs it through his hair, finally meeting Brian’s eyes again. “Which means I probably should.”

“You don’t have to if it’ll make you uncomfortable.”

Pat brings Brian’s hand to his mouth, kisses the bottom of his palm. “I think it was ‘cause I was a little stoned, honestly,” he starts, then pauses. “It was— _fuck_ , Brian it was really hot. The photos and stuff. And—and you talking about people looking at me. But then I got Ye Olde Weed Anxiety, and I—” he shudders out a long breath “—I started panicking that I hadn’t turned off my stream from earlier, which _of course I had_ , but. I couldn’t shake it.” He kisses Brian’s palm again. “And when I tried to just ignore it, that shit from college got dredged up and my brain was just. A bad place to be.”

Brian brings their hands toward him so that _he_ can kiss _Pat’s_ hand. “Sounds like it,” Brian says. Not offering advice or trying to analyze the whys and how-comes. Just. Being there. They sit in silence for a few moments before Brian says, “Would you like me to delete the photos?”

“No, they’re okay,” Pat says. “I’m okay now. I liked them a lot, um, actually. Until I didn’t.”

“Mmm,” Brian hums. They’re quiet again for a long while. “Can I hug you?”

The breath punches out of Pat’s chest. “Oh, yes please,” he says earnestly.

Brian smiles against Pat’s neck as he holds Pat close and squeezes around his shoulders. He politely doesn’t say anything when Pat’s throat jumps and spasms. He simply rubs soft circles between Pat’s shoulder blades, down his spine, over his shoulders. Holds him tight.

Pat mumbles something against Brian’s hair, but Brian doesn’t hear the words, just feels Pat’s warm breath across the shell of his ear. “What was that?”

“I said, can we go back to what we were doing?” Pat asks. He leans away to look at Brian’s face. “That sobered me up quite a lot, and I think—no, it would be good to feel your body here with me. Also,” Pat adds sheepishly, “I’m somehow still hard, which like— _what_?”

That startles a barking laugh from Brian. _He’s_ certainly not hard anymore. “Bodies are fucked, my dude,” he says. Brian can feel his eyes crinkling, he smiles so big. “If you’re sure, I feel okay with that. But we gotta change it up. I can’t get back into that headspace now.”

Pat shakes his head. “Oh, I wouldn’t want you to. Just—nice. Would be, uh, nice.”

Brian grins and kisses Pat’s cheek. “Nice I can do.”

They flop down gracelessly onto the bed, scooching like inchworms until their heads are rested on the pillows. Brian strokes his hands down Pat’s arms, and when he gets a nodded _go ahead_ , he moves them all over Pat’s soft skin, his worn cotton shirt, their warm bodies coming together at so many delicious points and planes and angles.

Brian lets Pat set the pace, so it’s not long before Pat rolls them so he’s on top, which is great, truly, and Brian melts into the bed because the weight of him, the feeling of him on top of Brian, is _so good_.

Pat pushes Brian’s shorts down and lines up their bodies and gets his hand around both of them. Brian keens as Pat jerks them together, breathes hot into Pat’s shoulder and bites down into the corded muscle when Pat’s fingers dance over the head of his cock. It’s simple and fast and no-frills. Pat falls over the edge first despite—well, despite earlier. But Brian is only a few strokes behind with a garbled, _Pat, fucking hell_.

The window AC hums and blows too-cold air over their sweaty bodies, but Brian wouldn’t move even if you paid him a million dollars. A hundred million dollars, probably.

“How bad will we regret it if we fall asleep without cleaning up?” he asks, mumbled into Pat’s neck.

“Unfathomably bad,” Pat replies. He smooches Brian’s forehead and Brian flops farther over Pat’s limp body in response. “I love you too much to let that happen.”

Brian does a little happy wiggle, his sex-drunk, endorphin-riddled mood tempered only by the fact that he definitely wriggles into a wet spot. “You love me _so_ much that you’ll give me five more minutes.”

Brian can’t see it, but he knows Pat rolls his eyes. “Five more minutes,” Pat agrees.

And when Brian jerks awake at three a.m. with his groin glued to the top sheet, he can’t even act surprised.


	4. Well I Guess It Would Be Nice If I Could Touch Your Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who helped me get this chapter out into the world kicking and screaming--especially to @greenonions, who when I said, "I think I need to change chapter 4, what should it be about?" wordvomited this idea at me five minutes later. 
> 
> And massive thanks to everyone I've posted snippets for and who's keysmashed at me! I'm like Tinkerbell, I need applause to live. Y'all are such enthusiastic clappers, it warms my heart.
> 
> Title is from "Faith" by George Michael.

Contrary to popular belief, the Polygon crew doesn’t hang out that often outside of work. Well, Brian hangs out with Pat quite a lot, and Jenna and Simone sometimes go antiquing together, but they don’t travel together like a little herd around New York.

E3, though, had been a fucking stressful nightmare disaster mess, and even the week after they’ve been pulling late hours and even later video uploads. It made sense, then, that when five of them—Brian, Jeff, Jenna, Pat and Simone—were still in the office at eight p.m., they’d go out afterward to commiserate with each other about the experience. They’re at a new place way out in Bed-Stuy with a small-but-good patio and decent drinks, which had been Brian’s only requests. _I just want to be outside_ , he’d said _. Show off m’ jorts_.

They get their Korean fusion tacos at the bar and commandeer the large picnic table, Brian across from Pat and next to Jenna, who’s been regaling him with stories from her most recent re-playthrough of _Outlast_.

Everything feels warm and sweet—it’s Friday, and people are gonna leave for vacations soon, when New York reaches its most oppressive and syrupy, but right now the weather feels amazing. Hot, yes. Brian wouldn’t call himself a fan of the heat and perpetual trash smell. But the warmth is so nice after months of gray, city rain and slipping in his boots in patches of wet snow.

Everyone’s getting into the summertime vibe—patterns and florals and shorts and short-sleeved shirts—except Patrick, who looks fresh from the crypt in his vest-hoodie and straight-leg jeans. He’s cute, though. Brian’s gonna keep him.

Brian nudges Pat’s foot under the table and Pat, used to Brian’s bullshit, doesn’t even bat an eye or falter in his conversation with Simone. He’s smiling his wide, toothful smile that he gets when he forgets to be self-conscious. Brian loves that Simone can bring that out in him. Loves that he’s getting better at bringing that out in Pat, too.

He finishes his beer and pulls out his phone when Jenna turns to ask Jeff something about his upcoming move. Pat’s talking with his hands, and it’s so cute, Brian can’t resist. 

_you look really good tonight <\_

_I mean, you look good every night <\_

_but especially right now <\_

Pat doesn’t see the messages for a few minutes, not until Brian’s up at the bar with Simone getting another beer.

 

| _> really? owo_

_\ > (that’s how I’m supposed to use that emoji right)_

_if you’re flirting with me, it is <\_

_\ > owo_

 

Brian huffs a laugh as he digs out some bills from his wallet and drops them on the bar. Simone’s distracted, asking to try three different sours and also a guava songpyeon. He scoots off to the side to compose another message before heading to the table. If Pat’s interested in flirting, Brian can definitely work with that. 

 

_would you like to play a game? <\_

_\ > does it involve me sawing off my own foot_

_\ > because, pass_

_no. <\_

_no tricycles either. <\_

_how turned on do you think you can get in public <\_

_before you’re begging me to fuck you in the bathroom?_

_\ > jesus_

_\ > is that a threat or a promise_

_it’s whatever you want, baybee <\_

_owo <\_

_\ > goddammit._

_\ > . . ._

_\ > owo_

 

Brian looks up from the bar to find Pat’s eagle-eyes on him, expression unreadable but also so filled with _yearning_ that it pulls something taut in Brian’s gut. He writes one more message before pocketing his phone. 

 

_pay attention to jenna, darling. she’s going to get suspicious. <\_

 

Pat snaps up his head and Brian sees him go _mmhmm!_ as though he’d been paying attention the whole time. By the time Brain re-straddles the picnic table, Pat’s in-it-to-win-it answering questions about his new lighting rig. Jenna wants to try it out, maybe buy her own rig for some side projects. That ol’ talking-about-work thing without _actually_ talking about work. Pat says something about the number of lumens, and then something self-deprecating about way the light refracts off his chin zits, and Brian can’t have that.

“The new rig must be doing wonders for your nudes,” Brian says. He takes a loud sip of his beer, like he’s trying to slurp it up into his mustache.

Pat laughs, startled, but quickly recovers. Brian’s not surprised. If he’d been able to win that easily, it wouldn’t have been a very fun game.

“Haven’t tested it for that yet,” Pat says easily. “Why, you wanna borrow it?”

Even though _Pat_ is the one who introduced the concept, the thought seems to bring a red flush to Pat’s cheeks. He’s seen what Brian can do. There are some quality angles for nudes in Brian’s bathroom, some weird built-in shelves to balance on for supreme dick pics. Combined with portrait mode on his iPhone? Brian can get some intense zooms on his come-covered fingers or his abs glistening with sweat.

Brian realizes he’s been quiet for two beats too long right when Simone accidentally knocks into the table as she stands up. It spills a bit of Pat’s beer and creates enough of a distraction that Brian could kiss her square on the mouth for her two left feet. He uses the excuse of spill damage-control to run his fingers over Pat’s wrist, drag his nails to leave tiny scratches that make Pat spiderweb his fingers against the wood table top. Simone apologizes profusely, promising to buy Pat another beer, but he waves her off saying, “No foul—I was almost d- done with that one, anyway.”

Brian digs his nails _hard_ into Pat’s wrist, then releases when Pat’s breath catches. “I think I got most of it,” Brian says casually. He drops the wet napkins into his empty food basket.

“Thanks, man,” Pat says, voice shaky. He blinks at Brian, uncharacteristically doe-like, like he’s seeing him for the first time.

Pat’s—it’s sort of like—Brian will—Okay, like, he’ll unpack his preconceived notions about queer flagging later, but god _damn_ does Pat look like such a bottom right now. If Brian saw a stranger looking like this, sipping his drink and shy-smiling at his conversational partners, he’d think, _oh, I’m gonna take that one home if Jonah doesn’t get to him first and fuck him six ways from Sunday_.

“No worries, _dude_ ,” Brian replies. “You gonna grab another beer?”

Pat shrugs and reaches up to scrub one hand over his cheeks and nose. “I was thinking about getting the rice cracker nachos so I could hit up the salsa bar.”

Brian slides his fingers down the condensation of his glass. Pat’s eyes don’t even track the movement, for fuck’s sake. Ugh.

“Mm, good idea,” Brian says, leaning closer to Pat across the table. “There are so many to choose from. And it’s always good to know which _topping_ you like best.”

Pat rolls his eyes, but _there’s_ that beautiful cheek flush that Brian knows and loves. He digs a little harder.

“There are just so many styles to choose from,” Brian adds, “and you want to make sure you’ve found a top that’ll really enhance the whole experience. Make it worth your while.”

Brian raises his eyebrows, holds them aloft for two seconds, then waggles them with sexual intent. Pat rolls his eyes again and mutters _dumbass_ under his breath, but Brian can see his hands shifting nervously in his hoodie pockets. They don’t call him Brian “Long-Con” David Gilbert for nothing.

While Pat waits at the bar, Brian takes care to casually arrange himself at the table, poised for flirtation. He sits back, crosses his legs and holds them in a flex position so his muscles—well, they don’t _pop,_ because it’s not like he just shotgunned some pre-workout, but they still look nice. Defined. He tousles his hair casually while asking Jeff about their t-shirt design, and maybe he lays it on thick, the flouncing, more than he has since growing the mustache. Jeff doesn’t seem to pick up on it, but Jenna does, and she gives Brian a weird look when he announces Pat’s return with a, _Oh marvelous, Patrick’s returned from the war!_ He knows he’s acting like a confirmed bachelor in a 1940s Hollywood movie, lisping enough to raise accusations but stereotypically masculine enough that they roll off like water on a duck’s back.

It’s doing something for Pat, though, the way Brian’s holding himself, carrying himself. Strong while also delicate. Pat bites into what’s apparently a _kimchipenada_ then asks Simone about her upcoming trip, but his eyes keep flicking to Brian’s hands and the way they effortlessly float through the air.

\---

It's not like Brian spends the entire time flirting, that would be truly wild, and rude, and he’s not 21 in Scotland making those kinds of dumbass mistakes any more. He’s genuinely curious about Jeff’s t-shirt situation, and about ordering one of the new joy-con skins maybe in a customizable color palette.

He’s fully engrossed in a conversation with Jeff about some features in Illustrator that Brian hadn’t even known _existed_ , when Pat says, “Sorry everyone, it’s hot as balls out here and I haven’t done laundry in like two weeks, so you’re just gonna have to deal with my pale-ass shoulders.”

Pat unzips and slides off his jacket and oh. Oh dear.

Brian hadn’t understood what _laundry_ had meant in the context until he sees that Pat’s only wearing a white tank underneath his jacket. Probably the extra one he let Brian borrow for his Funky Kong cosplay—which shouldn’t be hot, but for some reason it’s doing it for Brian, a little bit. It’s short on Pat like it shrunk in the wash, just resting over the waistband of his pants, and that would normally be the hottest part, except—

Pat must have been slowly roasting like a rotisserie chicken for a _while_ before taking off his jacket, because his tank top is almost completely soaked through with sweat. Brian can see his nipples, _fuck_ , and his Victorian sensibilities fly out the window as his body lists toward Pat’s without him consciously thinking about it.

“Ooh, daddy _like_ ,” Simone says around a mouthful of spicy cabbage. She prods Pat’s bicep. “Didn’t realize you were buying us all tickets to the gun show.”

Pat laughs self-consciously and raises his hand to push his hair out of his face, which only highlights his stupid fucking arms and his stupid fucking armpit hair that’s sticking a bit to his skin with sweat. However, it also highlights—

“ _Jesus_ , Patrick, we get it—you’re getting laid.”

Pat flushes all the way down his neck and over his collarbones. He must realize, at the same time that Brian realizes it, that neither of them had known on Wednesday night that Pat would wear a tank top _sans_ jacket today. His shirt’s neckline is wide enough that a trail of hickies peeks over the fabric, stretching down to parts unseen.

But Brian knows exactly where they go: they detour to each of Pat’s pecs, skip a bit of his stomach, then come back in full force in a ring of bruises around his hips like a belt. Some trickle down to his inner thighs, too, where he had tasted so good that Brian had lingered, caught up in the noises Pat stifled when Brian nipped at the soft skin.

The bruises had looked so sex-gnarly the next morning that Brian had blown Pat before work because it was simply too hot to handle, the proof that he’d marked up Pat like that. _Claimed him_ , a dark part of his mind had whispered. Now they’re a few days old, still obvious as hell but also color-changed and mottled. Looking like Pat really got roughed up. Like he’s sated and well-fucked and _claimed_.

Pat snaps his arms down, his elbows on the table in an attempt to hide some of the bruises, but it’s truly a losing game. “Would—” his voice cracks; he tries again— “would you believe me if I said I donated blood and she couldn’t find my vein?”

Simone honks. “If that’s true, point me to which Blood Bus you used, ‘cause _damn_.”

She lifts Pat’s arm by his wrist, completely ignoring his personal space because she’s a woman on a mission, inspecting Pat like he’s at auction. Brian knows exactly what she’s going to find, and he winces when—

“Pat, you dirty bird! You’ve got hickies in your _armpits_.”

Yeah. Simone’s not wrong, Brian can confirm. There are more bruises on the soft underbelly of Pat’s arm, on the edges of his ribs, and some that are barely visible through the sweat and hair in his armpit.

It’s a good look. It was a good look when Brian put them there. He’d breathed in Pat’s smell as he did it, the warmth of his skin and slight tang of his sweat, so concentrated and base. Pat’s very essence, if Brian were to get flowery and wax poetic about it. But he doesn’t. He wants to get very Hemingway up in this bitch (Simone would approve).

Pat smells masculine. Virile. It makes Brian’s eyes flutter closed when he licks Pat’s sweaty skin and the salt hits his tongue. On days where he feels the least shameful and the most horny, he’ll shove his nose into Pat’s armpits after he returns from muay thai. Whine as Pat lifts his arms to let Brian explore mouth-first.

It had been a whole _thing_ to convince Pat to shower at home instead of at the gym. That no, Brian’s serious—he wants to lick the salt from the crease of Pat’s neck. That it’s hot, thinking about how hard Pat just pushed his body. To its limits, usually—Pat doesn’t go to the gym often, but when he does, he doesn’t half-ass it.

Pat will drop his gym bag in the entry way and raise his arms against the door and let Brian inspect, trail his fingertips along Pat’s biceps. His tongue follows shortly after, flicking behind his fingers until all that’s left is the taste of soft, neutral skin. Which means Brian has to get another hit straight from the source.

It always makes Brian’s cock jump, licking up Pat’s underarms, kissing and biting into the tender flesh, whining when he’s fully surrounded by the scent of him. Pat usually lets Brian drink his fill, always seeming to know the perfect moment to use his last bit of post-workout adrenaline to shove Brian down to his knees.

“What can I say, Simone?” Pat says, cutting through Brian’s way-too-obvious stare into the middle distance. He flexes, and Brian takes two giant swigs of his beer. Then another two. Practically drains it in one go, he does. “Some people love me for my body.”

Simone fakes a gag. “Ew. I mean, I don’t want to yuck anyone’s yum. But. Ew.” She laughs loudly, the only way she knows how to laugh, which covers the sound of Brian tapping his fingers on the table.

“I-D-K, Simone, don’t knock it until you try it,” Pat drawls, glib. He looks unashamedly at Brian over the rim of his beer glass.

“You can taste your partner’s pheromones—” and oh, _fuck Patrick,_ because that’s something Brian had babbled at him during the ‘convince him to be a sweaty boy’ conversation— “and really _drown_ in how turned on they’re getting even when you’re barely touching them.”

Jenna perks up. “I had an ex like that,” she says, tilting her head. “She used to love going down on me after we’d hit up the club, before I’d shower or anything. I don’t think it’s that uncommon, Simone.”

Simone shrugs. “Look, your mileage may vary, but I know I smell like a wet elephant after a run, so this girl’s outie.”

“Anyone want another beer?” Brian asks, and he’s glad that it’s loud enough on the patio that probably no one—other than Pat, who smirks at him—can hear how his voice cracks. “I’m feeling God in this Chili’s tonight, so this round’s on me.”

Brian maybe, sorta, astral projects on his way to the bar—weirdly turned-on, embarrassed, a little hard.

Patrick snipes Brian with some horny shit at least once a day, usually with intent. Not so much like this, though. Returning Brian’s energy with not only a yes-and, but a yes- _papi_. It’s distracting and delicious and it shifts Brian’s perception of the evening one molecule to the left.

When Brian returns with drinks for himself and Jeff, he finds that Simone and Jenna have scampered off to play a round of skee-ball, with winner receiving bragging rights and also a coffee tomorrow from the loser. Jeff thanks Brian for the beer, then motions to his phone and says something about _tweeting about her stream tonight_.

“How’re you doing?” Brian asks Pat, setting down his drink. His tone could be taken for completely neutral and casual, if one were to take it that way.

Pat wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Like I’m dying,” he says, quirking a grin, “but, like, a good kind of dying.”

“ _La peti_ —”

“A bit,” Pat interrupts. He bumps his shoulder into Brian and steals a sip of the kölsch Brian had decided to try. They sit in silence for a few seconds, Brian swinging his feet above the ground like his toes don’t touch, before Pat adds softly, “Sorry for kinkshaming you in front of everyone.”

“Congratulations,” Brian says, shooting Pat a _look_ , “you kinkshamed yourself.” He bumps Pat’s shoulder right back, nudges their legs together closer than two coworkers strictly would need to be sitting on this bench. “I wasn’t aimlessly flirting earlier, you do look fucking hot. Especially in that filthy tank top.”

Brian pauses a moment to make sure Jenna and Simone aren’t, like, right behind him. “Love how sinful you look covered in my bruises,” he adds in a whisper. “Everyone else here can see you’re getting fucked up right.”

Pat stretches. Preens. “It feels nice, to be the center of attention like that, even though it’s wicked embarrassing.”

“ _Wicked_.”

“Want you to park your car in my Harvard Yard.”

“Jesus,” Brian says, laughing. He runs his hand through his hair. “Y’know, it suits you.”

Pat hums, questioning, as he takes another sip of his beer.

“The attention,” Brian amends. “Your reaction. You’re—you’re gorgeous, Pat Gill.”

And it’s true—Pat probably wouldn’t say that he’s _gorgeous_ , maybe _ruggedly handsome_ on a good day, but Brian thinks it a lot. The flush on his cheeks is gorgeous, his long fingers playing with the rim of his glass are gorgeous, the too-long-since-a-haircut hairs fanning out over the tips of his ears are gorgeous. Pat is gorgeous, and it’s making Brian have inappropriate thoughts in public.

Brian aches, suddenly, to reenact this scene with Pat squirming around a butt plug. Or a vibrator, maybe, that Brian could control remotely. Pat would pant at Brian’s command, would play it off like it was too-spicy salsa or a mild fruit-based allergic reaction, while Brian thumbed the dial higher on the remote. Or maybe he could lock Pat up in chastity, they hadn’t even _talked_ about that one yet, but Pat would look amazing with his body’s most basic functions deferred to Brian’s control. Brian could fuck him long, and hard, and fast, and slow, and gentle, and quiet, and in all sorts of ways, and Pat couldn’t come—wouldn’t come—and wouldn’t that be glorious?

If Pat could loosen up (heh, gross) about bottoming, then there were _so_ many things they could try. Even this, even in public, where it’s—it’s fun, okay? To be a mischievous lil scamp and arouse your boyfriend at a bar.

“How are _you_ doing?” Pat asks, cutting through his internal monologue with an echo of Brian’s earlier question. The salacious images pop and fizz out of Brian’s brain, to be considered and explored another time.

“God, I’m wound up,” Brian says on a sigh. He rubs Pat’s thigh. “Thinking too much and overwhelmed by choice like I’m at a Baskin Robbins.”

“Thirty-one flavors of how you’re going to top me?”

Brian chuckles darkly. “Actually, yes. Was thinking about how wonderful it would be if I could reach down right now and press against the seam of your pants. Feel where you’d be all plugged up and ready for me.”

Pat chokes on his drink. “Oh god, Brian, really?”

Brian hums his affirmative and locks eye contact until Pat breaks first, blushing. Electricity thrums under Brian’s skin, pulsing along with his heartbeat at how well Pat is playing along. Humoring him. God, if tonight is the night—

He’s wanted to fuck Pat so _badly_ , but hadn’t planned on it being _tonight_. No best-laid-plans or all that. He doesn’t even have any lube on him, _fuck_ , what was he thinking? He should always carry lube. Never know when you’re gonna need it.

He squeezes Pat’s thigh under the table, his hand only shaking a little. No one’s looking at them, so he does it again. It still feels daring, to be the worst-kept secret in the office and somehow still get away with it. Simone hadn’t even speculated on _who_ gave Pat all those hickies—either because she didn’t care (unlikely) or because she already _knew_.

Brian feels overwhelmed by choice, overwhelmed by responsibility. He’s not drunk by any means, but the beer and beef bulgogi tacos churn in his gut.

Pat furrows his brows at Brian and cocks his head. Brian can see the _U K?_ poised on the tip of Pat’s tongue, so Brian beats him to it. He blurts, “Gonna use the loo,” in an affected, vaguely-British accent, and scampers to one of the two single-stall, gender neutral restrooms behind the skee-ball machines.

He leaves it unlocked, waiting, hoping that Pat isn’t stuck in the dark ages regarding bar bathroom hook-ups and got the memo. He doesn’t have to wait long, though—Pat follows him in and locks the door like two minutes later, _definitely_ not enough time for their friends to not notice.

Pat spins around from the door to face Brian, three feet away, like he’s not sure how to proceed from here. But he got this far, at least, and that rolls under Brian’s skin in a wild heat. “Pat,” Brian says softly, “they’re going to realize we’re in here together.”

Pat sighs and flips his hair, nervous, but he’s still smiling that goofy too-big smile. “Fuck it. I am so tired of- of hiding in plain sight.”

And that’s—Isn’t that just.

Before Brian can say anything, Pat continues, “And- and yeah, it’s _super_ fucking tacky that we are about to do this in a bar bathroom, and, like, I will probably experience what I would say is a healthy amount of shame about it tomorrow. But damn, Brian—I want you so badly, and I want people to _know_ how badly I want you.”

Brian swallows loudly in the muted-muffled silence of the bathroom tile walls that echo with their heavy breathing. “Are—” he starts, but his throat feels dry. He clears it, not blinking, not quite sure of what weird expression his face is making. “Are you sure? You’d be doing, like, twelve different types of _coming out_ all at once.”

Pat grins wryly, and Brian knows he’s a dead man—but the happiest dead man that ever did live.

“You nervous about it?” Pat says, sultry, eyes flashing. He takes three steps forward into Brian’s space; Brian takes one stutter-step back. “They’re all going to _know_ those bruises are yours. That you marked me up, told everyone on sight that I belonged to you. And I do,” Pat adds, softly. “I belong to you, Brian.”

Brian crashes their mouths together with a whine, and _god_ is he glad this bar has two bathrooms, because otherwise he would feel guilty about how long he’s planning to be in here taking Pat apart. He bites Pat’s lip, too-hard at first, then just right, coaxing from him a whine that starts in Pat’s mouth and ends in Brian’s. Brian’s hands won’t stay still, he’s got to touch as much of Pat as he possibly can, all at once, every bit of him—he wants to map Pat’s body with his fingers and never let him go.

Pat must sense the desperation, because he pulls Brian’s top lip with his teeth and then backs off to breathe. “You- you okay?” Pat asks, his voice high. Not sex-deep, but sex- _excited_. He takes off his askew glasses and sets them on the bathroom sink. Brian, glasses still on, can see his fingers quaking.

“Yes,” Brian replies, nipping in for a quick kiss because he can, he must. “I just want you so _much_ Patrick, god, you’ve—I love you so much. This is a treat, such a treat and—oh _shit_.”

Brian pulls away with a ragged groan and takes off his own glasses, jams the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“What, baby?”

“I don’t even have any lube,” Brian wails. He’s distraught and a little tipsy and this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him in his whole life, because Pat’s ready to _take one for the team_ and Brian’s stuck dry in the dugout.

And then, there really is someone up above looking out for horny queer kids everywhere, because—

“I do,” Pat says. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a little foil envelope.

Brian stares at him, mouth agape, for long enough that Pat laughs and uses two fingers to close Brian’s jaw. “You’ve had that with you all _day_?” Brian asks, incredulous.

“Not, like, at the ready,” Pat says. He grins and pokes his tongue in the corner of his mouth. “It was in my satchel, but when you gave me _bedroom eyes_ when I dabbed a bit of sauce off my shirt, I figured I should be even more prepared.”

Brian’s hands shudder as he grabs the packet and tries to open it. It keeps slipping through his fingers like water, like this whole _night_ has in many ways, really. He laughs, nervous.

“Sure you’re okay?” Pat asks, furrowing his brow. “We don’t have to—”

“Oh we’re gonna,” Brian says, firm. “You know that saying? The one about the man who suddenly got everything he always wanted?”

“Is that a saying,” Pat asks, “or a line from Willy Wonka?”

Brian laughs and smacks Pat in the chest with the lube packet. “Shut up, it’s true. I’m living happily ever after and I’m so fucking stressed out that I’m so happy.”  

Pat takes Brian’s hands and places them on his chest, where the fabric is still sweat-damp, and Brian can feel how hard Pat’s nipples are through his shirt. And maybe Pat thought that would be grounding, for Brian, but if anything, it spins him looser out of control. It’s like Pat accidentally killed a legendary Pokémon when trying to catch it.

Brian lurches forward with sloppy kisses, needing Pat under his tongue any way he can get him. He wants to feel overwhelmed, surrounded, in-the-thick-of-it—and he whines when Pat’s hands come up to cradle his face. He feels untethered. Like if he doesn’t explore Pat with all five of his senses at once, he’ll absolutely fall apart.

Brian gets Pat’s delts under his greedy little fingers and squeezes, presses, pushes, feels the way the muscles shift as Pat’s hands move from Brian’s face down to his hips. It goes straight to his gut, when Brian thinks about how easily Pat could suplex him, but that _Pat_ is the one who longs to be pinned.

“Patrick, please— _please_ , I need—” And oh, that was _not_ supposed to be begging, actually, but his mouth runs away from him—always writing checks that his ass isn’t supposed to cash, because _he’s_ supposed to be topping, goddammit.

At the shriek-whine that slips out of Brian’s mouth, also unbidden, Pat pulls back and grips Brian by the shoulders. He turns that dark-intense eye contact up to 11, stares at Brian with his mouth twitched into a frown. It’s long enough that Brian can study the lines of his face, the way his chest heaves like he’s just done some wind sprints, the growing surface area of the white patch in his beard. Ruggedly handsome. Gorgeous.  

Pat finds whatever he was looking for—or whatever he _wasn’t_ looking for. A resigned look flits across Pat’s face, only for a split second, before it morphs into a devilish smirk. His grip tightens on Brian’s arm.

“It’s really getting you hot,” Pat murmurs, "that everyone will know I belong to you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s a shame you don’t have some to match, so they can see how good we fuck each other.”

Brian chokes on a wet inhale, whimpers _please_ , and that’s all Pat needs before he’s lurching in like a starving man to undo Brian’s top two buttons. Pat splays the fabric apart and hits Brian’s skin mouth-first, his tongue and teeth doing filthy work on Brian’s suprasternal notch. It’s not a particularly sensitive spot now, but it’ll feel amazing later when it’s a bruise. When it sits right under the collar of Brian’s shirt, and he can press and press and press over the aching skin.

Pat says quietly, forcefully, “Hands together, Brian.”

And, oh. Things got well and truly out of his control, somewhere between the _kimchipenada_ and Brian hopping to attention like Pat’s very good boy. Brian hadn’t realized his hands were still fluttering nervously all over Pat’s body like anxious butterflies, never landing in one spot for long.

He clasps his hands together in front of his groin, and it’s like following Pat’s order releases a gentle waterfall of calming liquid, which flows from the top of his scalp down to his wiggly toes. _It’s the oxytocin!_ his brain chirps unhelpfully.

But Brian likes to believe it’s just Pat. Who else could turn Brian to mush with a glance and a sentence? Who else could stalk toward Brian like he’s both Pat’s prey and also his savior?

Pat crowds Brian up against the wall until Brian’s back is pressed to the tile, still cold even through the fabric of his shirt. He uses to fingers to lift Brian’s chin until they’re staring eye-to-eye.

“Okay with me flipping the script?”

Brian sighs happily and places a sloppy kiss to Pat’s cheek. “I’m gonna top you one of these days. I swear.”

“I know,” Pat says, so fond. “I’m looking forward to it.” He leans in to suck an even more visible, painful, _glorious_ bruise on the side of Brian’s neck. And oh geez, everyone’s going to see, _everyone’s going to see_ , they’re really not hiding it now.

Brian’s hands unclasp and come up to scratch down Pat’s arms, his fingernails leaving little pink marks in their wake. He can feel himself getting a little floaty around the edges as he looks at their trail.

It’s fascinating from a physiological perspective and also a horny perspective. Brian doesn’t typically have the easiest time getting into subspace—he’s too in-his-head, like, ninety-nine percent of the time to let it happen. They’ve intentionally tried to drop him there before, but it’s taken Pat over an hour of careful, methodical attention to get Brian even close. And those few times, Brian noticed it happening and thought, _Oh, there it is!,_ which was enough to snap him out of it. He gets _submissive_ , hoo boy does he ever, but he’s never felt what other people on Tumblr and Reddit had described as a full, almost-out-of-body, dreamlike experience.

But god, right now? He might, if he could just—if he could just _articulate himself,_ then he could let Pat know what was happening, that it was _working_ and to keep it up, but his noises must make something about it obvious to Pat, because Pat—

Pat grabs Brian by the jaw and forces Brian to look at him—but it’s not _forceful_ , not really. Brian barely feels it, muted, but also? Brian would go wherever Pat wanted him to go, even with the softest touches—

but Brian finds he doesn’t really _want_ Pat to be soft right now—

And there’s another one of those weird expressions on Pat’s face—confusion, concern, maybe—before Pat’s eyebrows raise in what must be surprise. And then there’s joy, and then something more feral, sinister, in a way that makes Brian’s toes curl because it’s thick with delicious intention.

Pat slides his right hand up Brian’s chest toward his neck. “You having a good time, baby?”

It feels like it takes Brian forever to work his mouth open, and even when he does, all that comes out is, “Uh-huh.”

Pat smirks and _ooh_ , another thread of want unspools down Brian’s body—or what bits of it still feel grounded, anyway. “You want to be having an even better time?”

“ _Please_.”

Pat gets his hand around Brian’s neck and adds pressure with his thumb—and oh, yeah, that kicks him there. Like that movie, _Inception_? That was a good movie, and definitely gave a young Brian a lot of things to think about regarding Tom Hardy and his sartorial choices.

But _wowie_ , it feels like Pat has swept Brian’s feet out from under himself. Brian knows he’s still standing because Pat’s face is so close to his, intense-focused but also joyful, wild grin and flyaway hairs and all. Brian feels himself slump down the wall, boneless, but he’s caught by Pat’s thigh and knee holding him up, and _oh_ — Pat is so _strong_ and such a good man and it feels like the world has narrowed to just the two of them pitched together in the bathroom, the corners of Brian’s vision flickering to black, and Brian is just so lucky because who else could make him feel _this good_. He tries to communicate literally any of that, but what comes out is a soft, choked, “Wow.”

Pat lets off the pressure and leans in to bite at Brian’s jaw. He nips and kisses and bites and sucks and peppers him with bruises that are, hoo, they’re gonna look so good—Brian’s gonna look _so_ fucked up tonight, tomorrow, heck, five days from now when he’s still applying a second round of foundation during his lunch hour to cover the worst (best) of them.

Brian gasps when Pat gets a hand around his cock—oh, Pat had unbuttoned and pulled down his shorts to his thighs, worked him out of his boxer briefs—all one handed. Pat’s _so_ talented. He only distantly feels the sensation, or rather, he feels it, but it’s the background noise to Brian’s pleasure, the low all-night rumbling of the engine that’s powering a cruise ship. The cause of the thing, but not the thing itself. Pat spits onto Brian’s cock and rubs the slick into his skin. He gets a slide going that makes Brian rock forward onto his toes, back onto his heels, with the movement of Pat’s hands.

Brian thinks about yelling, but the noise never makes it out of his mouth because Pat applies pressure on his neck again and the blackness returns, and Brian floats in the air, weightless and flying and caught between the wall and Pat’s stupid, wonderful hands.

“I want you to come for me, sweetheart,” Pat says, twisting his hand in a way that makes Brian shiver and lose even more of his balance. “Can you do that? We’ve been gone for so long, our friends are going to know what we’ve been up to. Come whenever you’re ready, I’ve got you.”

It takes Brian a bit to get there—he’d love to say that he could come on command, but honestly? Even if he could, he’d never give Pat the satisfaction, because Pat would be _so_ smug and would never shut up about it, and then Brian would have the smuggest boyfriend in the world. But it doesn’t take long at all before Brian makes a choked-off noise and bucks his hips into Pat’s fist, spilling all over himself as Pat releases the pressure on his neck. Coming feels like he emerges from the depths of the ocean, breaking the surface tension to gasp like a drowned man— _but wasn’t he flying, before? Where did the water_ —and he crunches inward on himself as the last bits of fluid dribble out of his cock and over Pat’s fingers.

He loses a bit of time, then.

Brian’s vision whites out, but not for long, he doesn’t think. When he gets some tingly feeling back in his fingertips and toes, Pat’s still murmuring praises into his neck. Peppering him in soft, gentle kisses. Telling Brian that he’s _such a strong, beautiful boy_ and that he’s _wonderful, an absolute dream_.

“Pat,” Brian says on a gasp. “Holy. H- holy shit.”

Pat smirks against his skin. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” he says. He grabs one of Brian’s hands and starts rubbing gentle circles onto the backs of his knuckles, his wrist. The calluses on his fingertips feel grounding, their rough slip-slide gently easing Brian back into his body, the boundaries of his skin.

Brian hums, content. There’s silence for a few beats as he comes back to himself, other than his nonsensical humming, before he replies, “We live in this bathroom now.”

“No we don’t,” Pat says, chuckling. “Brian, if I eat one more _kimchipenada_ I’m gonna shit my brains out.”

Brian cracks one of his eyes open like a dragon guarding its hoard. “Gross.”

Pat kisses his neck once, then twice more for good measure. “I’m gonna step over to the sink and get some stuff to clean you up,” Pat says. He wipes some sweat from his forehead. “I’ll be right back, promise-promise.”

“’Kay.”

Brian’s not sure why Pat told him where he was going—there’s not many places to go in this bathroom—until Pat detaches from him, and Brian feels a chill sink into his skin. It’s unpleasant, but not unbearable, and Brian finds himself reaching out to draw Pat into his arms almost instantaneously. But Pat’s back in a flash with some soap and toilet paper—and thank god this place invests in the bougie, sustainable shit, because it’s super soft.

Pat carefully cleans him up, tucks him into his pants, and takes such good and tender _care_ of him that Brian could cry. And oh, there are a few tears leaking out of his eyes, aren’t there? But Pat kisses those from his cheeks _too_ , and gosh, Brian is going to melt.

Brian clears his throat and shakes his head to rattle loose the cobwebs. “Can I—” he starts, then tries again. “For you? Anything for you?”

Pat smiles, and it’s warm and it burns the last of the chill from Brian’s body. “No, I’m good for now, baby,” he says, kissing Brian’s cheek again like he can’t help himself. “Was too focused on making sure you were okay. _Shit_ , Brian, when I realized you were floating? It was so scary but also so beautiful. How much you trusted me. I—” he breaks off with a chuckle, a little self-deprecating but also so fond. “Thank you, for letting me see that.”

Brian grins stupidly. He knows it, he can feel it, but he can’t stop the shape of his mouth. “Thank you for making—for making me want to . . . let you see that.”

Pat laughs and runs his thumb over a trickle of water running down Brian’s neck. “Brain still a little offline?”

“Shut up,” Brian says with a huff. “I’m having a _moment_. You’re supposed to be providing aftercare, you absolute fart.”

“Well I know all the books say to let you take as long a _moment_ as you need,” Pat says, throwing away the paper towels, “but I’m pretty sure if we aren’t out of here in, like, five minutes, they’re gonna call security on us.”

Brian tousles his hair and sniffs. “Fine,” he says, unlocking the bathroom door. “But you’re gonna make it up to me. I don’t deserve this piss-poor Dom etiquette.”

“I’ll get us a Lyft so we don’t have to take the bus back to your place?”

“Perfect, to start.”

Pat groans. “Brian.”

“Patrick.”

“ _Brian_."

Brian stretches up and boops a kiss on Pat’s nose. “Love you too, babe,” he says, then opens the bathroom door to face the hopefully-unaware bartender and their definitely-aware coworkers.

**Author's Note:**

> If you love essays about sex and consent and communication, I highly recommend the book _Learning Good Consent_ edited by Cindy Crabb. There's an essay that discusses different people's preferences re: methods of asking/receiving consent, which was part of the inspiration for this fic. 
> 
> The other inspiration was that I wanted to write some porn.


End file.
